


The First Cut is the Deepest

by Ellidfics



Series: Captain Fraudulent [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, First Time, Heterosexual Sex, Nightmares, PTSD, pinup girls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-21
Updated: 2018-01-07
Packaged: 2018-12-18 01:19:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11863659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellidfics/pseuds/Ellidfics
Summary: Everyone thinks they're sleeping together, but they aren't.Sharon wonders why...and then she finds out.





	1. Question

Everyone thinks they're sleeping together, but they aren't.

This is not because they don't want to. Sharon certainly does, to the point of getting a blood test (clean), a fresh IUD, and a supply of condoms just in case. And though he hasn’t actually _said_ so, Steve certainly seems to if the way he acts when they're alone is any guide, even if he still calls what they're doing “petting” instead of “making out.” He's learned to give (and receive) a proper kiss, and after some fumbling the first time or two, the way he touches her when the lights are low and the music’s soft, quiet, slow, and almost reverent, makes her shiver every single time she even _thinks_ about it. His fingertips are slightly rough but that doesn't make his hands any less sensitive, or warm, and sometimes she wakes in the night dreaming of those hands on her breasts or between her legs and can't help but whimper into her pillow before she finishes herself off.

Almost as good is the way he reacts when she reaches underneath one of those tight, tight t-shirts and runs her fingers across that smooth, warm skin: tiny sounds, little gasps, long soft moans at the merest touch to his chest or around his navel. The serum enhanced everything about him, his senses and his mind as well as his strength, and that includes increased skin sensitivity. Feeling his muscles quiver, hearing his breath hitch, seeing his pupils dilate in arousal – she's never felt more powerful, or more humbled.

Now she wants more than touches and kisses, more than making out on the sofa or in the kitchen. She wants to find out whether and where that beautiful skin has freckles, how much the fine hair on his arms will rise when she takes him in hand and guides him inside her. How much he'll talk, whether he's a cuddler or falls asleep right away, what he'll look like riding or being ridden, how much he'll need to hold back (or not) when he comes, whether he'll nip her throat or her breasts or her shoulders, will he scream or swear or simply moan - 

She wants him, all of him, every gorgeous _inch_ of him, and if that makes her greedy (probably) or perverted (what? Her aunt all but threw them together) or just a woman who's dating a stunning man, guilty as charged. They're both adults, he's more than willing if the hard, long bulge in his jeans is any guide, they both have their own apartments. She knows that in the end they're going to end up in the same bed, touching and tasting and teasing until there's nothing between them but their skins and their sweat and their cries.

So why haven't things gone farther? 

Neither of them has a roommate, so it's not that. Her bed's barely adequate for two normal-sized people, let alone Steve, but his is huge and looks comfortable even if he sometimes complains that it's _too_ comfortable and he slept just fine on the ground with a bedroll and Dum Dum Dugan snoring like a freight train five feet away. Neither of them has a disease – Sharon did check, remember, and Steve is immune to infections - so that's not it. And if her IUD and the condom fail, she knows he'll support whatever she decides, Catholic boy or not.

He's not trying to keep their relationship a secret, either. They've been completely professional during duty shifts no matter what Neal tells Rumlow when he thinks Sharon isn’t paying attention , but once they clock out or a mission ends, it's just Steve and Sharon going to a movie or grabbing dinner, sometimes with friends, sometimes alone. They're like any other couple getting to know each other, and if their first really big date was the Commander-in-Chief's Inaugural Ball and not the SHIELD holiday party, well, that's what you get for dating a Medal of Honor recipient and living legend. 

That the whole world got to see him in his full mess dress, with decorations from half the Allies and the insignia of his honorary knighthood gleaming on his uniform, and wonder who _was_ that woman in the simple black evening gown on his arm, only made it better. Sharon had done her best to look elegant and mysterious while avoiding most cameras, and the mere thought of the text she'd gotten from Aunt Peggy saying WELL DONE MY GIRL still made her smile.

So why does every single date end with him holding her close, face buried in her hair as he tells her she's beautiful and he's so sorry but it's late and he needs to get ready for tomorrow, then help her up and hand her her coat and kiss her silly before he walks her down to the curb to wait for the cab? Why does he escort her to her front door, kiss her and hold her close, then whisper, “Good night, sweetheart,” and step away so she can unlock the door and go inside while he watches?

He's not gay – probably not even bi, all the rumors about Barnes and sharing sleeping bags during the war aside – and he likes her, she knows it's not an act. She doesn't look a thing like her aunt, either, so it's not like he's trying to recreate the past with the next best thing. So what's going on?

It's not until a mission goes horribly wrong that she starts to realize why he won't take her to bed.

It was a joint Avengers/STRIKE Alpha operation near the Latverian frontier, at least on paper. “We drop in, execute, get out. Easy,” Rumlow had said, leaning over the site map, and after a few seconds studying the plan, Steve had nodded and they were set.

Then Thor was suddenly called back to Asgard, Banner excused himself because of concerns about civilian casualties, and Iron Man was grounded after Dr. Doom slapped him with an industrial espionage lawsuit before the Quinjet had cleared American airspace. Steve had been forced to come up with a new plan on the fly and if they'd had more than a quick briefing/strategy session just before wheels-down, it might have worked. 

But as it was, the three least powerful Avengers were on point, not Thor and Iron Man, and as good as Cap, Hawkeye, and the Widow were, it wasn't the same. Instead of the Hulk or Thor smashing through the castle gates, they had to waste time while Steve broke the hinges on a sally port with his shield, and of course those were adamantium so it took more than one hit. 

And of course by the time they were inside, the castle's security had spotted them, the element of surprise was gone, and what should have been a surgical strike turned into a nasty, ugly, brutal mess. 

No one died, thank God. But Santerre broke her leg in two places when a Latverian energy weapon cut her zipline and she fell. Ward took a bullet to the arm and would have bled out if Rollins hadn't basically clamped the severed artery with his hand until someone could whip out a tourniquet. Reports that the castle was staffed entirely by Latverian androids or clones or whatever were wrong, and there were enemy casualties that neither looked nor acted like trained operatives.

Even the Widow went down, and though she's healing fine – they all are, thank God – it was a near thing.

The mission was a success, but only because SHIELD got what it came for. And Steve, who'd been the commander, had called in a verbal report during the first part of the flight home, then hunkered down in the co-pilot's seat and not spoken a word for the next two hours. He barely nodded when the steward handed him one of double MRE's someone had nicknamed “the Cap pack,” ate, drank, and recycled in silence, then went back to staring out into the rushing dark.

Sharon tries to get him alone – she'd never seen him this frozen, not since the day she'd brought him what SHIELD had managed to salvage from his footlocker – but Rumlow insisted she read his report before he filed it. It’s the usual blah blah blah about “mission objectives” and “execution,” plus Rumlow can't spell to save his life, so by the time she finishes proofreading, the quinjet is on final approach to the helicarrier.

She raises her eyebrows – weren't they supposed to head back to New York? - only to have Barton shrug and say something about bad weather in the Tristate area. 

She tells Steve. He nods, throat working as he swallows. Then he turns and stares out the window into the night. He's too pale and his jaw is too tight, and his right hand is clenched so hard his knuckles are almost ripping through his skin. 

Sharon hesitates. There’s still time to draw him out, barely, before they land. 

“Steve?”

He swallows again. His eyes are fixed on something only he can see.

“Are you all right?“

“I'm fine.” He doesn't quite snap, but it's abrupt. “Just thinking.”

“If you need anything – “

His jaw twitches, once. “You’ll be the first to know,” he says, and it’s clear the conversation is over.

The silence continues even after they land, clean up, and get a decent meal instead of chicken fajitas that taste like aluminum foil. Steve murmurs a few words to Rumlow and makes sure the injured (and Barton, who won't leave Romanov's side) are settled in Medical, but outside of that he doesn't say a word as the STRIKE team is led to the crib for a few hours down. Sharon tries again to talk to him just below he peels off to join them – she's his girlfriend, of course she tries - but he simply shakes his head and mutters something about “later.”

Which turns out to be about ninety minutes, tops.

 

“Carter. Get up.”

Sharon blinks hair out of her eyes and rolls over with a groan. There hadn’t been enough room in the crib for everyone, so Rodriguez had scared up billets for the women in BOQ (female). The rooms had been musty from disuse and the bunk had been rock-hard and smelled like government-issue soap, but Sharon had been so exhausted she'd been unconscious almost immediately. 

“It's – sweet Jesus, Rodriguez.” Sharon stares at her watch through eyes that feel almost grainy with exhaustion. “It's barely been two hours. Get Rumlow, he's on the rota and - ” 

The only woman on STRIKE Alpha shakes her head. “Sharon. It's Cap.”

Sharon freezes for a second, then is on her feet and reaching for her tunic, exhaustion forgotten. “Undiagnosed injury? I know he has a healing factor but - ” 

“We wish,” says Rodriguez. Her hair is a mess, and is that a bruise starting on her cheek? “He woke up five minutes ago screaming and ripped the crib to shit. Tore his bunk right off the wall - “

Sharon takes a moment to breathe before zipping her tunic into place. That ominous stillness, the thousand yard stare - 

“His bunk? Those things are welded into place.”

“ - which is why Rumlow told me to get you.” Rodriguez hisses at a sudden burst of static from her earpiece. “Goddamn it, some asshole from Strike B wants to tase him!“

“Is he out of his mind?” Sharon tugs on her boots and slams out the door. Had the Betas slept through the class on dealing with trauma? “You can't tase him, he'll shake it right off!“

“Brock says, 'no shit, Sherlock,'” says Rodriguez, lengthening her stride to match Sharon's. “I gotta warn you, it's not pretty.”

“It's got to be prettier than what'll be left of the Betas.” Sharon pushes down the icy dread in her gut. “Has anyone even tried to wake him up instead of attacking?”

“Yeah. Didn't go well.” Rodriguez rubs her cheek, and yes, that is definitely a bruise. “Thought you'd have better luck than we have.”

Sharon stops in mid-stride, cocks an eyebrow at the other woman. “I'm not his therapist.”

“Yeah, but you're his – friend,” Rodriguez says, just hesitant enough that it was clear she'd wanted to say something other than “friend.”

“And that makes a difference?” Sharon takes a breath, exhales, takes another. “Just because we’re close doesn’t mean I’m going to have any better luck – “

“Sorry, sorry!” Rodriguez actually flinches, hands up and palms out. “I know you aren’t magic. Just – he’s been spending more time with you lately than anyone else except maybe the other Avengers. Nothing more.”

Sharon hesitates, then gives the other woman a quick nod. “Point.”

“Okay, you need to – “

They’re almost at the crib now, close enough that Sharon can hear muffled thumps and someone shouting _whoa, big guy, chill!_ She shakes her head at Rodriguez, then takes the last few yards at a run.

Rodriguez slaps at the palm pad, and the doors fly open on chaos: twisted bunk on top of smashed table, STRIKE Beta roiling in the corner, mattress against the opposite wall, Rumlow trying to shout above the Betas, a snarl that came close to a wail and a small dark man flying backwards. Sharon hisses, then shoves past Rumlow and heads for the scrum. 

“Beta, stand down! All of you!” One of the outliers tries to grab her arm, and she smacks him aside without thinking. “Carmichael! I said _stand down_!”

Carmichael, huge and bald, bares his teeth at the order. His shock stick is glowing from a full charge. “All due respect, ma’am, but - “

“Tasing him isn't going to help. Get out of my way,” Sharon snarls, and it’s satisfying as hell to see him go white before he drops his weapon and steps aside.

She's seen this before – eyes open but not awake, body tense, mind caught in a dream that’s as much flashback as nightmare – but never, ever from Steve. He'd once mentioned not sleeping well before the Burnside mess, then shrugged and said he didn't sleep as much as normal people since the serum so it didn't matter but that was about it. There was nothing about night terrors or sleepwalking in his records, not even a rumor beyond the rumblings about depression when he'd first wakened from the ice. 

But this - 

“Carter.” Rumlow, jaw set, eyes narrowed, appears to her left. A muscle jumps in his upper arm. “I wouldn’t if I were you. He can break you in half.”

_”Sharon?” His eyes were wide, his touch careful as he traced the lines of cheek and jaw._

_“Yes?” She turned just enough to kiss his fingertips. He shuddered at the gentle pressure, his pupils dilating like a cat's._

_“Can – can I - “_

_“Draw me like a French girl?” she murmured, smiling. They'd watched Titanic together, and he'd been fascinated by how modern technology could create the look but not the reality of the past._

_He laughed, soft and happy. “That wasn't quite what I had in mind, at least not yet - “_

“He won't,” says Sharon. She sets her shoulders and waves Rumlow aside. “Steve? It's me. Sharon. Wake up.”

One callused hand flashes out in a move almost too fast to see, and if Sharon hasn’t learned his sparring moves almost as well as she knows her own, she would have gotten clocked in the shoulder. Instead she sidesteps, locks her fingers with his, and lets the force of the strike carry her backwards and to the side. “Steve? Eyes on me, focus, you’re fine - “

He gasps and stares directly at her with eyes that see something horrible. Behind her, someone – Rodriguez? - mutters Fury's name, and someone else - Rumlow? – mutters something about getting a medic to sedate him, not that you _can_ without a horse-sized dose of ketamine. Sharon makes a shooing gesture with her left hand. 

“You're safe, Steve. No one is going to hurt you. Wake up.”

His mouth opens slightly the way it always does when he’s assessing a situation, and the muscles in his arms tense as if preparing to attack. Sharon tightens her grip, forcing down the knowledge that he can snap her bones as easily as a normal man could break a crisp dead twig. His fingers are ice-cold.

“Sharon?” His grip relaxes enough that her hand no longer aches. “God, I – I - “

“It's me.” The shuffle of footsteps retreating toward the door barely registers, but she makse a mental note to stand Rodriguez a drink for clearing the room. “You're safe.”

His eyes clear with shocking suddenness, pupils shrinking to normal in an instant. He drops her hand with a tiny, almost inaudible sound, and falls back against the wall, curling in on himself as shudder after shudder tears through his massive frame. 

“What did – oh God – what – did I – did I hurt anyone?” 

He’s shaking so badly the words are barely intelligible. Sharon snatches up the nearest blanket and throws it around him. “Steve. Here, sit down – I'm here, you're safe, everyone's fine. Breathe.“

“I - “ His hands pluck at the blanket as she guides him to an unmade cot and eases him down. “It was the ice. I dreamed I was back in the ice.”

Sharon wraps the scratchy wool blanket more tightly about him, chafes his hands and murmurs nonsense until the tremors ease. No wonder his hands and face are so cold. “We won't let that happen. _I_ won't let that happen.”

He coughs hard enough that the cot shakes. “I know, I know. Still dreamed – so cold - “

There’s a faint creak as Rodriguez opens the door and sticks her head in. _Is he all right?_ she mouthes.

Sharon shakes her head, then gestures at the ceiling. The room is a good ten degrees below what regs say it should be, with cold air blowing on directly in her face from one of the ceiling vents. “Up the temperature, Rodriguez. This place is an icebox.”

His breathing morphs into a sigh as the air from overhead shifts from “Florida air conditioning” to “winter in Vermont.” His shoulders slump, and there’s that tiny whimper again. “Sorry. Hasn't been that bad in months.”

“You're allowed to have a bad dream once in a while.” Sharon strokes his back, draws his head to her shoulder and allows herself to rest her cheek against his hair for a moment. The fine strands are rank with sweat. “I'm here.”

“You were there, too. In the dream.” He lifts his head enough that she can see tear tracks on his skin. “So was Tony. Clint. Natasha.” 

He swallows, hard enough it has to hurt. “I could see everyone, hear everything, but no one could see or hear me. I was trying to shout, tell people I was awake, but no one could hear me - “

Sharon murmurs comfort in what she hopes is a soothing tone. Had he actually been awake in the ice? Was this a dream or a flashback? 

“That won't happen. I promise.” She smoothes the matted hair back from his face. “You aren't alone, Steve. I'm here.”

“I know.” He rests his brow against hers, breathing finally normal. “How much did I wreck?”

She almost sas “nothing, it's fine” but the dismembered bunk and scattered bedding are too obvious for a well-meant lie. “Nothing that can't be fixed.”

“What about casualties?” His jaw tightens when she doesn’t reply. “Sharon. Who did I hurt?”

“Rodriguez is a little bruised. Rumlow looks shaky, ditto a couple of the Betas. Nothing permanent, nothing serious.” She shakes her head when he starts to protest. “Don't, Steve. Don't even think about blaming yourself for this. You can't control your dreams.”

There’s a quick flash of anguish in his eyes. “I'm the mission commander. I don't have time for that.”

There’s a knock on the door before Sharon can think of a reply that isn't a cliché about even heroes having the right to bleed. 

“Carter? Cap? You all right?” Rumlow blinks at the sight of them side by side, hands clasped, faces nearly touching. “Sorry, I - “

Steve releases Sharon's hands and stands, the pain and confusion replaced by the calm strength of Captain America between one breath and the next. “I'm fine, Rumlow. Just a bad dream, nothing more.” He pauses. 

“Get the team in here so we can put this place back together. Then the rest of you, get some rack. I need to finish my report before we make base.”

“You got it, Cap.” Rumlow gives Sharon an unreadable look – just what has Neal been telling him when they go out for a drink? - then signals to the rest of the team. “Rollins, Leung. You heard the Captain – get those mattresses back in place - “

“Right, chief,” says one, and before Sharon can say another word Steve’s joined them, the cleanup is underway, and whatever else he might have said is lost. Then Sharon’s communicator chimes (Fury of course, wanting to know what the hell just happened) and it’s her turn to make an excuse and leave. By the time she’s free, they’re back in New York, and she barely has a chance to tell Steve to call her when he’s home before he’s on the quinjet back to Avengers Tower and she’s on her way home. 

_He’s fine_ , she tells herself as she takes the first available car from the motor pool and starts the descent back to her apartment. _It happens to all of us. He’s fine._

_He’s fine._

_Fine._

Even though she knows he isn’t.


	2. Carpe Diem, Darling

He doesn't call.

Oh, they see each other during duty shifts – he doesn't avoid her at SHIELD, he never has – and they sit in the same meetings, just like always. He even forwards recipes and health tips to her, the way he does to all his friends. But the little texts and jokes and calls she's gotten used to? The quick cartoons he dashes off on his Wacom and shoots to her when she's on assignment? The faint half-smiles, the covert glances when they're in public? The raised eyebrow as he offers her his arm when they're off-duty and are back to Steve and Sharon, not Captain America and Agent 13? 

Gone. 

Worse? He doesn't return _her_ calls or texts or emails. The closest he comes is liking a couple Facebook pictures of her niece Shannon dressed for an SCA tournament, but then again Steve occasionally spars with his local group and actually went to a winter camping/fighting event right after New Year's. He even gave Shannon a few pointers on using her shield (she's wild to be the East's first ruling Queen, and she's good enough that it might just happen), so it's not a surprise that he likes “Brienne of the Frosted Hills” in full armor. 

Beyond that? Nothing. Zilch. Nada, nada, nada. He's professional, of course, but being treated with the same cool politeness as Morse or Ward stings. It's as if they'd never been more than work buddies, never dated, never touched or kissed or come so, so close to sharing a bed. It's so bad, and so frustrating, that Sharon's half-expecting him to take her aside and tell her it's not her, it's him, that he's still not over her aunt even though Peggy all but ordered him to find someone younger (like Sharon) and stop moping over what couldn't be changed.

After a week, Sharon is all but ready to explode. IF HE'S GOING TO DUMP ME HE NEEDS TO DO IT TO MY FACE, she texts a friend from college who only knows that she's been seeing a cute guy from work, not a living legend they'd analyzed in American Studies 204. JUST BECAUSE HE'S UPSET DOESN'T GET HIM OFF THE HOOK.

TRU DAT Lauren texts back, and they spend the rest of her subway ride home grousing about how men suck, and why are they so afraid of emotions, and the next time Lauren's in New York they'll get together for wine and cheese and maybe go dancing, just the way they did back in college.

Sharon's feeling quite a bit better when she gets to her apartment. Maybe it's not fair to bitch about Captain America to someone who thinks he's just another guy, but then again he's the one who's basically slammed the door on whatever they had. She can live without Steve Rogers, yes she can, since it's quite obvious he's decided he can live without her, she'll tell him so tomorrow and - 

And then her phone rings, and suddenly her love life isn't so important.

It's her older sister, the one from Dad's first marriage who normally acts like Sharon is directly responsible for her parents' breakup even though Dad didn't even meet Mom until two years after the divorce. “He's had another attack. You'd better come,” she says, voice shaking, and Sharon barely takes the time to text Fury to let him know she's taking emergency leave before grabbing her go-bag and heading for Grand Central. 

The train ride to Cortlandt is pure agony, the cab ride to the hospital worse. Mom won't answer her phone, her older brother doesn't _have_ a phone for reasons he's never shared with the rest of them, and her sister was so clearly on her last nerve one more call will send her completely over the edge. Sharon does try to get in touch with Aunt Peggy, just in case her sibs forgot that Dad is Aunt Peggy's baby brother (which is not out of the realm of possibility) but it's after midnight in Britain so she has to settle for a text.

Her phone rings just as the train is pulling into the station. Sharon makes a face – whoever it is, their timing sucks – and lets it go to voicemail as she bulls her way through the commuters to the cab stand, gives the first one the hospital's address, and does her best to stay calm.

If he's dying - 

If he's _dead_ \- 

She closes her eyes and breathes deep. 

_Get a grip, Sharon. You're almost there. Ten more minutes..._

_Five more minutes..._

_One more minute..._

She puts on her professional face even though she knows her sister will simply call her “cold” and “unfeeling” the way she always does if Sharon isn't visibly sobbing, asks for directions to her father's room, and strides through the hospital, go-bag over her shoulder. Visiting hours are almost over, but she has her SHIELD badge with her and has no qualms about using it.

Room 204...

Room 206...

Room 208...

And there's her father, all by himself, sitting up in bed and scowling at a tray of the horrible gray junk they call “food” at the local hospital.

The next few minutes are a blur – she alternates between hugging him, laughing with relief, and then listening to him rant about how her sister exaggerated everything _again_ , his heart is fine, he was dehydrated after a hike and fainted, nothing more, the stents are fine and the EKG was normal, it's all right – and then her mother shows up with takeout that smells good enough to remind her that she didn't have dinner, and it's more hugs and laughter. Eventually the three of them settle down, and Sharon only has to flash her badge once before the nurses leave them alone so her parents can tell her what happened and why her sister panicked.

“I got dehydrated and fainted. I'm fine,” he says, over and over, and even though Sharon believes him she doesn't stop worrying until her mother catches her eye and nods. Dad might try to pretend he isn't almost eighty, but Mom at least can be trusted to tell the truth.

Eventually Mom takes her home. It's not comfortable – her sister's there, acting like it's her house even though she has her own family up in Dutchess County, and then there's her brother and sister-in-law – but at least Shannon is there, all arms and legs and exuberant squeal about seeing Aunt Sharon again. Sharon's old room is just the same, posters and books and toys right where they should be, and Sharon takes a few minutes to hug her favorite stuffed teddy before she settles down for the night.

If she dreams about a tall, quiet man with blue eyes and a shield, not her old bear, well, she can't control what her brain does when she's not conscious. 

The next morning isn't much fun. Shannon is her usual exuberant self when Sharon stumbles downstairs in the SHIELD t-shirt and sweatpants from her go-bag, but Shannon's parents keep to themselves while the coffee brews and the bacon cooks, murmuring quietly about “Dad pushing it” and “intervention” and “talking to lawyers.” Sharon's never been gladder that SHIELD taught her how to make chit chat with someone else while memorizing every word of another conversation. 

Fortunately the chatter stops the second Sharon's mother walks in, gives her stepchildren a sharp glance, then pours herself a cup of coffee and thanks Shannon for being a dear and starting breakfast. Sharon's brother goes red, then white, and his wife suddenly remembers she has to make a phone call before existing a touch too fast. Shannon, frowning, opens her mouth to say something but stops when Sharon shakes her head. Her niece is by far the best contribution her sister-in-law ever made to the Carter family, but she's only sixteen and it's not right to air dirty laundry in front of her.

There isn't much conversation once Mom dishes out the bacon and eggs and toast – a good breakfast is the one thing they all agree on – so it's not hard for Sharon to slip away once the table is cleared and the dishwasher is humming. Visiting hours aren't until later, so she has an hour or so to check her messages before she heads over to the hospital for some private time with Dad.

There are five messages waiting for her, four text and one voice. The texts are from, respectively, Fury (leave approved, his best to her father), Rodriguez asking if she wants to have drinks, there's something she needs to know (too late, it was last night, Sharon will call her on the train back to the city), a picture of her college buddy's cat right after he got fixed with the caption BEST MAN I KNOW, and a reminder from her calendar that she and Steve have tickets to a jazz concert at Lincoln Center tomorrow night.

She stares at the reminder for a moment, then tries to make herself delete it. He blew her off, all she wanted to do was help, why didn't he - 

_”He needs a friend, darling,” said Aunt Peggy. She watched as Tony Stark led Steve aside to discuss upgrades to his body armor. “He's so terribly alone.”_

_“He has you.” Sharon gave her a reassuring smile. “You can move here and - “_

_“And what? I'm 93 years old. He just turned 27, at least according to his lived experience.” Peggy's grip was strong, but Sharon could still feel the arthritic bumps in the joints. “That won't do. He deserves someone he won't have to bury in a few years. That isn't me.”_

_Sharon thought back to the quiet anguish she'd seen in his eyes that first night. “I tried to tell Nick he needed to be around people. He wouldn't listen.”_

_Aunt Peggy shook her head, frowning slightly. “I don't think it was his choice.” She lowered her voice so only Sharon could hear._

_“There's something going on, Sharon. I don't know exactly what, but after one's been in the business as long as I have, one knows. Watch him, at least until he gets his legs under him again.”_

_“And if people think I'm gunning to be the second Carter in his life?”_

_“You'll know the truth. That's all that matters.” Aunt Peggy gave her hand a brisk shake and smiled, even if there was the merest trace of sorrow in her eyes. “And if the opportunity arises to be more than friends - “_

_“Aunt Peggy.” Sharon gaped. Was her aunt really all but ordering her to make a move on Steve Rogers? “You can't be serious.“_

_“Carpe diem, darling. I didn't, and look what happened - “_

\- but she can't, she _can't_ , not until she knows what's wrong and why he's freezing her out even though it's crystal clear he shouldn't be alone. Maybe they can reconnect over Duke Ellington as played by a random Marsalis, or least he can relax enough to start talking instead of shoving whatever it is back under the “Captain America is brave and strong at all times, no exceptions” mask he wears around most of their co-workers.

If all else fails, maybe she can take Rodriguez to make up for blowing off her invitation.

She's so focused on the concert that she hits “play” on the voicemail before she can stop herself. That must be why the sound of his voice, still rough, still aching, is such a shock she nearly drops the phone.

“Sharon? It's Steve. Are you - “ He coughs, dry and hard, like he hasn't drunk enough water. “I heard about your dad. I - “

 _Cap, we need you._ What sounds like Rumlow in the background.

He coughs again. “Let me know how you are.”

The call ends, and she stares at the phone. Then she hears her mother calling that it's time to go her father, they're leaving _now!_ , shake a leg darling! and she turns the phone off. 

Later. She doesn't have time to think this through.

Later.


	3. By Grand Central Station I Sat Down and Wept

It's not an easy day. 

Her sister alternates between being sugary sweet when they're visiting Dad and a poisonous snake when they're alone, which is nothing new. Her sister-in-law looks disapproving when Sharon answers a question about her love life with a shrug and of course her brother nods and looks solemn and shakes his head over Sharon's unwillingness to commit to anything but her career. By the time Dad's cardiologist kicks them all out so he can go over the test results with Mom, Dad, and no one else, Sharon has a headache that won't quit and an overwhelming wish that Nick would cancel her leave because of an alien invasion, nuclear bomb, or one of Stark's inventions blowing up in a small town with a weird name.

Normally Dad would tell them to cut it out and act like adults, but right now isn't the time or place. So Sharon swallows her rage, ignores all the little picky needling comments about just where _is_ this mysterious new boyfriend and will they ever meet him, and pretends she's on an assignment, not dealing with her own family. Her father will be fine, and soon this whole incident will be nothing more than another in her list of Reasons Sharon Does Not Spend Time With Her Family Unless She Has To.

It's her plan, and for most of the day it works. She chats with Shannon about school (great, she's acing her classes) and her hobbies (she's the best youth combat fighter in the Central Region, whatever that means, plus karate's a blast), hugs Mom when the doctors order more tests as a precaution, and avoids her half-siblings as much as she can. By the time Dad is finally, _finally_ given the all-clear and they can breathe again, Sharon has relaxed enough that she's on the verge of telling Mom she'll take the afternoon train back to New York tomorrow instead of the first one in the morning.

And then her idiot sister-in-law comes back from the gift shop with a giant balloon and a gossip magazine, and right there on the cover is a picture of Steve posing with Kitty Pryde at a charity event for teenagers with a headline about CAPTAIN AMERICA'S SECRET LOVE LIFE!!!!! HOW MANY GIRLS IS TOO MANY???? Kitty doesn't have her mask on so there's no way to tell she's actually an X-Man, but she's young and pretty and smiling up at Steve, and that's enough for the trashmongers to think she's sleeping with him even though she's been mooning after Colossus for most of the last six months.

Sharon can't help making a face – first the frauders, now this? Will it ever end? - but that's nothing compared to the way Shannon's jaw drops when she sees the photo. “Aunt Sharon? Who's that in the picture with Steve?”

“It's a public appearance, that's all. She's one of the X-Men who ran in that charity half-marathon back in - “

“'Steve'? That's Captain America. How do you know him?” Her sister sounds genuinely bewildered, and Sharon wonders if she's been living under a rock since “Captain Steve Rogers, USA” has been commenting regularly on Shannon's SCA Facebook pictures since just before New Year's.

“He's been coming to fighting practice off and on for months. I told you that already.” Shannon rolls her eyes as only a teenager can. “Besides, it's not like he hasn't been dating Aunt Sharon since Christmas.”

Sharon's about to correct her, that she doesn't know _what_ they're doing at this point, when her sister-in-law's jaw drops and her sister openly stares. “Dating? _You're_ dating Captain America? _That's_ the boyfriend none of us has met?”

No one speaks for a few long, horrible seconds. Then her sister-in-law, eyebrows raised so high it looks painful, holds up the magazine, page open to one of the Inauguration pictures of Steve dancing with his plus-one right before Mrs. Obama cut in on Steve and Colonel Rhodes claimed Sharon. Sharon had turned away from the cameras in time to prevent a full face shot since she still does covert work, but anyone who knows her will recognize her jaw and her hair and the way she stands, straight and supple and ready for anything even though she's surrounded by the Secret Service _and_ has her fingers laced through Captain America's. “My God. My _God_. I can't believe it. That's _you_.”

Sharon swallows. She's not a small woman, especially in heels, and she's as strong and skilled as any female SHIELD agent except possibly Romanov, but she's almost fragile compared to Steve, especially when she's all glammed up. He looks like the All-American Ideal in the photo, mess dress perfectly tailored for those huge shoulders and that ridiculously small waist, and she can't help the sudden rush of heat to her core the memory of those long, surprisingly fine hands on her skin or that soft mouth exploring her throat. 

“Yeah, it is,” she says. “I told you I was in Washington for the - ”

“You.” Her sister is staring at her as if she's scum on the sole of her overpriced shoes. “You're dating Aunt Peggy's old boyfriend.”

Shannon opens her mouth, clearly outraged, until Sharon makes a slashing motion. Shannon's parents haven't moved.

“You're dating _Aunt Peggy's old boyfriend._ The guy she named one of her _kids_ after.” Her sister takes a step closer, face twisted in disgust. “What the hell is _wrong_ with you?”

Replies flash through Sharon's brain – _it's none of your damn business – we're both adults – he didn't even know we were related at first – Aunt Peggy wants this, she all but ordered me to make friends with him - _ \- but she already knows not one word will register. Her sister has resented her from the day she was born, the living proof that their father's second marriage wasn't a passing fancy and her mother would never get back together with their father, and this is just the latest proof. That isn't changing, so being bitter or angry or defensive would be about as useful as yelling at a hurricane.

_Carpe diem, darling._

_Seize the day._

_Seize_

_the_

_day -_

“I'm sorry, but my psych evaluations are classified information,” she says at last, and oh it's good to watch her sister turn approximately the color of a dirty floor tile. “So is Captain America's personal life, although you could always file a Freedom of Information request with SHIELD if you care that much. I could tell you his shoe size, though.”

There's a distinct giggle from Shannon's direction, and a deeper one that's probably from her brother even though he'll deny it. Her sister-in-law finally breaks a silence that's physically painful.

“Is this supposed to be a joke, Sharon? Because it's not very funny. It's one thing to follow your aunt's profession, but if you're actually – “ she pauses, visibly striving to find a polite way of saying something rude “ - _involved_ with her wartime love - “

“I'm _involved_ with a guy I met at work,” Sharon fires back, and oh it's good to see her sister-in-law recoil like a STRIKE member who's just encountered Agent 13's “sit down, shut up, and behave” mode for the first time. “Yes, I know he was the great lost love of Aunt Peggy's life. So does he, and so does she.”

“You dirty little - “ begins her sister, but Sharon's not stopping, not this time.

“Not only does Aunt Peggy know I'm dating Steve Rogers, she thinks it's a fine idea since I'm just about the only person outside of the Avengers who doesn't either piss themselves or salute when he walks into the room. And just so you know, Barton and Banner are straight, Thor and Stark have girlfriends, and Romanov doesn't date co-workers, so they're pretty much off the table.”

Sharon clenches her fists, suddenly so angry she's shaking. “So unless you're seriously saying he should try Match.com or OK Cupid, well, that leaves _me_. Unless you think Captain America needs to take a vow of celibacy on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial?”

No one's moving, or even breathing, including Shannon. Her brother lifts one hand, stricken, as if he's finally, _finally_ realized that his wife and his sister have been treating little Sharon like trash all these years. Sharon meets his eyes without blinking, and if being pleased to see him suck in a breath and take a step backwards makes her mean and vindictive, too damn bad. She's _done_ with being needled and picked at and told over and over again that she's not _really_ a Carter, that she should be ashamed of existing, and she doesn't give a damn who knows it.

A door opens behind her. “Sharon?” says her mother. “What's going on?”

“What's going on?” Her sister snatches the magazine from her partner in crime and waves it in front of Mom's face. “What's going _on?_ Your daughter has been dating your sister-in-law's old boyfriend and _flaunting it_ \- “

“I haven't flaunted anything!”

“It's very strange,” pipes up her brother's wife, even if Sharon's brother is looking more and more upset. “You must admit that.”

“Admit what?” Mom, lips thinned the way that means she's about two seconds from losing it, lays a hand on Sharon's shoulder. “That Sharon has a new boyfriend? That's her business, not yours.”

“Not my business? Don't you even care about how Peggy feels? Seeing her _niece_ swanning around - “

“I already told you, _Peggy knows!_ ” Sharon yells. She jerks away before Mom's hand can tighten long enough for Sharon to lose it completely and revert to being five. “You didn't even see her when she was in New York last summer, so stop pretending you give a damn about her, or me, or anything else! It's none of your business, and I have _had_ it with you – and you – and - “

“You nasty little slut, sleeping with your aunt's - “

“That's enough!” shouts their father, and every head in the room swivels in his direction.

He's a strong man, even now, and most of the time it's easy to forget that he's not young. But right now he looks old, and tired, and deeply, deeply hurt. Mom goes to him, face tight with worry, and he lets himself lean on her for an instant.

“Dad - “ Sharon's sister begins.

He shakes his head. “Don't even start. I heard what you called your sister. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

“But - “

“Who she dates is none of your business.” Dad turns to Sharon, holds out his hands. “I met him a couple of times during the war, you know. Your aunt is right. He shouldn't be alone.”

Sharon's about to thank him – the look on her sister's face alone is worth it – but that last phrase, well meaning as it is, kills the words before she can speak. If that last mission had never happened, if Steve hadn't shut her out for the last week, she'd agree (and she still does, deep down, he absolutely should not be alone). But now - 

_What about me?_ a little voice says in her head. _I'm your daughter, don't I count? What about what I need? Want? Is everything about him, not me?_

There's a ping from her phone, and if synchronicity isn't a real thing, well, this is close enough. She holds up a finger, her face smoothing automatically into mission mode, and reads a text from her college buddy asking if she's free next week for drinks. 

“I'm sorry,” she says at last. Normally she wouldn't lie, especially to her parents, but she can't do this right now, she just _can't_. “I have to go back to the city.”

The next few minutes are tense. Her sister and sister-in-law hang back as she hugs her parents, tells Shannon of course she'll meet her at the Met next week when the Prague exhibit opens, and slings her go-bag over her shoulder. Her brother hesitates, then steps forward and wraps his arms around her, murmuring how sorry he is, he truly didn't realize. Sharon wants to shake him – how could he not, all those years? - but the thought of not seeing Shannon is enough to make her murmur back that it's all right, they'll talk. She knows what it's like to be the odd girl out, oh yes she does, and whatever she can do to help her niece, she'll do.

Then it's a cab to the station, a seat on the train, and back to the city. Which contains her job (telling lies and shooting people, how is this her life?).

And her apartment (small and full of bugs even after the landlord fumigated).

And her so-called friends (not really fair, Natasha and Hill have always been there when she needs them).

And a man she doesn't know what to do with - 

“Pull it together, Carter,” she mutters, stabbing at her phone until her fingertip is numb and she's somehow on a page with cute kittens wearing flower crowns. “Stop whining and deal.”

Fortunately the train is almost empty (no surprise, it's the middle of the day) and she manages to hold that thought for the next hour. She checks Facebook (six invitations to play Farmville, what is going on?), texts her college friend with “yeah, sure,” leaves Nick a voicemail telling him she's on her way home and will go back on duty Monday morning, and sends Rodriguez a text asking what's going on. 

She deliberately does not listen to her own voicemail. The message from Dad is bad enough, the two from her niece worse, but she cannot, _cannot_ deal with the two from “SGR” or the one from “1stAvenger.” Maybe he's apologizing, maybe he's asking about her father, but right now the last thing she needs is to hear his voice.

Then they're at Grand Central, and she shoves her phone in her pocket, grabs her go-bag, and heads out onto the concourse. The station is almost completely restored, at least inside, and the sight of the tall clear windows and the great soaring vault with the constellations and the newly installed information kiosk is balm to her soul. Maybe the statues on the roof are still in pieces, but this much at least is back to normal. 

She takes a few seconds to breathe, just breathe, then starts across the concourse toward the Lexington Passage and the 4/5/6 trains. She'll have to go through the market so she might as well pick up a few things for a quick supper, maybe a treat at Zabar's and - 

There's a low rumble, and she freezes in place, staring at the escalators that are still labeled “THE METLIFE BUILDING – 45TH STREET” even though Tony Stark bought the building three years ago and permanently pissed off every architectural critic in the country. She knows that sound, it's a quinjet taking off, and when an announcement comes on about the 45th Street entrance being closing due to overhead traffice, she pulls out her phone and swipes so hard she nearly hits a random stranger who's unlucky enough to be nearby. 

If there's a mission - 

If he's not back to himself - 

If something goes wrong - 

_“Sharon? It's Steve. Are you - “ He coughs, dry and hard, like he hasn't drunk enough water. “I heard about your dad. I - “_

__Cap, we need you. _What sounds like Rumlow in the background._

_He coughs again. “Let me know how you are - “_

She can't hold back the tears any longer, even if she manages to avoid sobbing. Her father is old, her sister hates her, and the man she – _admit it Sharon, this is more than a fling, you've known it for months even you've never told him -_ loves is going off to risk his life while she decides between rugelach and macarons. It's too much, it's too damn much, and she stabs at his number even as she dashes the tears away. 

It goes straight to voicemail, and she shudders at the sound of the calm, steady request to leave a message. It's his Captain America voice, not Steve Rogers, even though it's his private line and not his work phone, and that might be the most heartbreaking thing of all.

“Steve? It's Sharon. My dad's fine, I'm back in town - “

There's a faint, jarring buzz as he picks up. “Sharon? Are you all right?”

He sounds more like himself, less raw, less pained. She sniffs and wipes her eyes again. “I'm good. I'm good. What's going on? Do you need me back at Ops? I'm in Grand Central, ETA ten minutes.”

“Ops? What - “ There's a pause, and she hears the faint sound of Billie Holiday singing a torch song in the background, not the beep and boop and voices she'd expect on the quinjet. “I'm off duty this afternoon. What are you talking about?”

The rumbling ends, and Sharon realizes it was the quinjet landing, not taking off. “I thought - “ She sucks in a breath, holds it for a few extra seconds. “I thought there'd been a call and I - “

_I missed you._

_I want to help you._

_We need to talk._

“Where are you? Brooklyn or the Tower?”

There's a pause, and she can hear the song now:

_Willow weep for me_  
Bent your branches down along the ground and cover me  
Listen to my plea  
Hear me willow and weep for me 

Then he clears his throat, and answers. “Brooklyn.” He stops.

“I'm – I'm not good company right now, Sharon. Maybe tomorrow. I'm sorry, I'm not - “

“Oh no. Not again!” she cries, and this time a businessman actually turns to stare. “Not this time.”

“Sharon, you don't - “

“I'll be there in half an hour,” she says as the tears start in earnest (tears for her, tears for him, who knows, who cares), and ends the call.


	4. The way I feel when I'm in your hands

It's only twenty minutes later when she exits the 5 train, shoves her way past the Grand Army Plaza turnstile, and starts for Prospect Park West. He's spent more time at the Tower than his apartment lately thanks to work, but it's been long enough since the whole “Captain Fraudulent” mess that Steve's just as much a neighborhood fixture as the Bugaboo strollers clogging the sidewalks and the artisan whatever shops on every corner. How he can stand the gentrification Sharon isn't sure, but he does, and between that and being just a few doors from Prospect Park he looks like he'll be staying in Park Slope for a while. 

Normally Sharon wouldn't mind this – she has her eye on a nice place in Cobble Hill that's less rent, more space, and far, far fewer bugs than the close to work but otherwise useless one bedroom SHIELD stuck her in after she transferred up from DC – but she's strung so tight that even a friendly wave from the nice priest at St. Saviour's is almost too much. She's had it with being avoided, being taken for granted, being _convenient_ , and the sooner she tells Steve in person, the better.

That she was terrified that he'd gone off to risk his life without knowing how she really feels about him, even if just for a few seconds....

It takes a few smacks at his doorbell before the main door to his building buzzes open. There's a blast of warm air from the foyer that makes Sharon shiver, so she unzips her coat and stuffs her hat and gloves in her pocket before she starts up the stairs. She's just made the second floor landing when the door opens and one of Steve's neighbors, the skinny black girl with the long, long dreads, steps out into the hall.

“Hey. You're Steve's girlfriend, right?”

Sharon bites back the urge to say “that's what I thought” and nods. 

“Something you should know.” The girl ( _woman, Sharon, she's an adult even if she looks maybe 25, stop that_ ) lowers her voice. “He's in bad shape. I don't know what's going on, but he woke us up a couple times last night. Be nice to him.”

“Woke you up?” The rage melts away, and suddenly she's cold to the marrow. “What happened?”

The boyfriend, who'd look exactly like a hipster except for the non-ironic worry in his eyes, joins her in the doorway. “No idea, but we kept hearing noise from upstairs. Thumps, yells - “

“He sounded like he was crying a couple times,” says the woman. She wraps her arm around her man's waist. “We went up to check but he said he was fine, go away. We knew it wasn't true, but after the second time we gave up.“

She sighs, shakes her head. “Like I said, he's in a bad way. Not sure why, he hasn't been like this in months, but something's wrong. Ever since he got back from out of town last weekend he's been a hot mess. Barely blinks at us, snapped at couple of kids who wanted an autograph, plays old music all the time. We've barely seen him since Thursday, and that was for five seconds after he got back from Manhattan.“

Sharon closes her eyes. That first voicemail, when he'd sounded so tired and so beaten down, had been from Thursday, right after she'd left town. 

_No connection. None. He barely knew my dad and -_

“Do you think he'll answer the door?” she says after a pause that feels much longer than it actually is.

The woman looks at her boyfriend, who thins his lips, then nods quickly. “Yeah, if it's you.”

There's no way to respond to that, not without going places Sharon isn't sure she's ready to go with a couple of strangers. “Thanks,” she says, then heads up the stairs.

There's an untidy heap of unread newspapers by the door, a lumpy plastic bag that stinks of beer by the entrance to the service hall. Has he been trying to get drunk? Can he get drunk? What is going on? Missions have gone south before and he hasn't acted like this -

Then she notices the date on the newspaper at the top of the pile: March 12, 2013.

This past Tuesday

One year to the day since he woke up from the ice.

_Oh God._

One year since she brought him that pathetic cardboard box with what the SSR had salvaged from his footlocker or reclaimed from the Smithsonian.

_”Nick. You can't move him out of BOQ to an apartment yet. You can't.” _

_“Carter. He can use a computer, an ATM, a Metro card. He has to get out into the world.”_

_“I heard him crying himself to sleep the first night. I was out in the hall and - “_

_“It's out of my hands, Sharon. We need him ready to fight.”_

_“He's a human being, not a weapon! You can't warehouse him without - “_

It's not something she did, not even the mission. It's not him taking it slow, or Sharon not being her aunt, or even Sharon going out of town. It's none of the above, and she can't believe she forgot the date. 

_Stop where you are_  
Light up my lover's way  
And every star above you - 

She ignores the sudden prick of tears at the faint, soft sound of Billie Holiday's voiceand lifts her hand to knock. The desperation in his eyes right after his nightmare, the raw scrape of his voice, the three messages she couldn't bring herself to check - 

_He's not the only hot mess. Not by a long shot._

There's no response, so she bangs again, harder. “Steve? It's Sharon. Are you all right?”

The music cuts out with crisp _pop_ that means he was listening to vinyl, not his iPod. Footsteps, slow and hesitant, shuffle across the living room.

“Steve. I know you're in there.” She can't keep a slight plea out of her voice. “Steve, please - “

There's a click and a slide as he throws the dead bolt, and the door opens. “Sharon,” he says, and clears his throat. “I – I tried to tell you, I'm not really up for anything - ”

His hands are trembling, just a bit. He hasn't shaved – or bathed, if the smell is any guide – in a couple of days. Behind him she can glimpse pizza boxes, take out containers, and a sketchbook with whatever he was drawing x'd out with huge, black strokes. There's an open bottle of whiskey on the coffee table.

“We.” Sharon swallows. When was the last time he slept? “Lincoln Center. Tonight.”

His muscle in his jaw twitches. “I thought you got my voicemail. I'm not – when I found out you were up in Cortlandt I had the tickets left at the box office for Natasha. Should have told you when you called.”

Everything she'd planned to say seems so petty. “I - “ What can she possibly say?

“You should call Nat. She said something about taking your friend Neal since he was feeling down. Maybe she'll step aside so you two can – can - ” He turns and walks to the dining room table, shoulders hunched and steps slow. It's as if he were biologically his age, not a young man displaced in time. “Spend some time together.”

“Neal? I haven't spoken to him since January.” Sharon takes a breath, then slips inside his apartment. _Carpe diem, darling._ “Not since I started seeing you.”

His shoulders hunch even more. Was this how he looked before the serum straightened his spine? “That might not have been a good idea, Sharon. He's a lot closer to what you need than - “

“I'll be the judge of that,” she says. The deadbolt snicks into place behind her, and she crosses the room to stand directly behind him. “Steve. Look at me.”

He goes stiff at the sound of the deadbolt, then slowly turns. His eyes are bloodshot, the lashes slightly crusted. “Sharon. Please. This isn't a good time.”

She takes a breath. “That's why I'm here. You - “

_”Nick. Why won't you let me near him? He doesn't need to know who I am.”_

_“He's adjusting.”_

_“He's ripping the gym to pieces, every day. And he's still crying himself to sleep.”_

_“And you'd know that how?”_

_“You know damn well I'm crashing at BOQ while the landlord works on my place. I hear him when I'm on way back from the commissary.”_

_“Sharon - “_

_“Nick. He's miserable. You can't do this to him. He needs to meet people, make friends.”_

_“I don't have a choice - “_

“ - shouldn't be alone right now.” She takes a step toward him. They need to talk, oh yes oh yes, but that can wait. “Let me help.”

“I'm fine. I just – just - “ He puts a hand on his forehead, eyes shut, jaw clenched so tight he's trembling. She crosses the space between them, opens her arms, and draws him close. “Sharon. You shouldn't.”

“Like I said, I'll be the judge of that.” She rubs circles on his back until he makes a tiny, anguished sound and wraps his arms around her. “You're not alone. Don't ever forget that.”

“I – it's not that.” He shudders and buries his face in her hair. “Sharon. Oh God - “

“I know it's a bad time, I know,” she murmurs. The muscles on his back feel like molded steel, they're so tight. “I can call Aunt Peggy, she worries about you and - “

“Heard from her this morning.” His voice is thick. “She said I should call you, you'd understand. Told you I'd tried and she said keep at it. I don't - “

This isn't the time to unpack that, not when he's hanging on by his fingernails. Sharon takes a step backwards, lays a hand on his cheek. “When was the last time you slept? Ate something that wasn't takeout?”

His beard is coming in darker than she expected, even with the occasional glint of gold in the stubble. “A day or two. Maybe longer.” He closes his eyes, turns his face to nuzzle her palm.

“Sharon – I - “

“Shh. You aren't alone,” she says, and leads him toward the bathroom before she starts to cry. “Let's get you cleaned up and fed before we do anything else.”

“You don't need to do this.” The ground glass quality is back in his voice. “I can look after myself.”

“I know that. But you don't have to,” she says, steering him toward the shower. The bathroom at least is clean, everything in its place. The only thing that seems to be have used lately is the toothbrush. “Take a shower and leave the rest to me.”

It's a measure of how exhausted he is that for once he does what's told. Sharon waits until she hears the shower turn on before darting in to grab his sweats for the laundry and leaving clean clothes on the toilet seat so he won't have to wear ones that stink of sweat and pain. The bed is next, fresh sheets and fluffed pillows, then into the kitchen to heat up a can of tomato bisque, open a box of oyster crackers, and slice cheese and bread while the griddle heats. Soup and a sandwich are ready just as he emerges for the warm steam, still drooping but scrubbed pink, and Sharon makes sure he eats every crumb she puts in front of him. He's yawning by the time he scrapes up the last spoonful of soup, and he doesn't do more than mutter something about too much fuss, he's fine, when she herds him off to bed, draws the curtains, and tucks him in.

The kitchen isn't horrible – not a surprise, he's barely cooked in days – and it only takes a few minutes to tidy up and take out the trash. The living room is worse, takeout that's gone bad and booze that won't even touch the serum, so she takes her time cleaning and straightening and airing out the stink. By the time she's gathered up all the recycling and added it to the bags in the hallway, it's nearly four and the shadows are starting to lengthen. She closes the window against the chill, takes a moment to breathe, and sits down on the big, deeply upholstered leather sofa.

That's when she hears the crackle behind her.

She jumps – she'd picked up everything, there shouldn't be anything _to_ crackle – then turns and sees something pale. It's a sketchbook jammed between the cushions and the back of the sofa, shoved in so hard the paper is crushed and the penciled images smeared. Sharon pulls them out and smooths them out as well as she can, one by one. 

At first she doesn't understand what they're doing in the sofa. He's still an artist at heart, always sketching and taking classes when he can, and there's nothing wrong with these. Most seem to be figure and face studies of a woman, a pretty blonde with long hair, so why did he crumple them up, normally he keeps everything, what - 

And then she realizes that _she_ is the pretty blonde. And that in most of the sketches, at least on the last two pages, she's dying or dead. 

All the breath leaves her body for a second or two. Then she makes herself start from the beginning, scrutinizing them one by one as if they were intelligence retrieved on a routine op. She can do this, she's a professional, maybe she'll finally, _finally_ figure out what's going on.

The first few are ordinary, studies of an eye, a chin, a lock of hair. She's laughing at a joke, nodding at a briefing, laying out a tactical plan for one of the STRIKE teams, sparring with Natasha, twitching her ponytail over her shoulder. He's shockingly good – no wonder that retired colonel wrote a book about his art – and the strokes are clean and sure. It's clear he's been doing this since they met, not simply since they started to date.

Then they change, and she has to wipe her eyes as she sees the visual evidence that he's been falling for her just as she's been falling for him.

The first hint that he sees her as more than a friend is one of her in filmy lingerie, hair up in victory rolls, a coy smile on her perfectly defined lips as she eases a silk stocking up one shapely leg. Sharon stares – she doesn't even _own_ a peignoir set and a garter belt, what the hell? - until she realizes that this is his fantasy, that he's imagining how she'd look dressed and posed like Betty Grable or Veronica Lake or one of the other pinup girls from his war. It takes a second look before she realizes there's a holster strapped to her leg, and a half-sized stunner on the vanity table next to the pots of lip rouge and eye shadow and foundation.

The next couple are similar – Sharon in a boudoir that's nothing like her actual bedroom, in poses and nightwear straight out of a GI's dream – and by the time she moves on to the one where's less lingerie and more skin she's more than a little aroused. If this is what he dreams of, how he sees her, clearly she needs to stop worrying that he's about to dump her. He wants her, if the art is any clue he (probably) loves her, and it's only a matter of time before they move from the sofa to the bed.

Then she gets to one of the last pages, and the pleasant warmth between her legs vanishes.

She's in her duty uniform, Glock strapped to her right leg, communicator to the right. Her hair is tied back except for the wisps in front that never stay in place unless she uses half a can of spray, just the way she does when she's on a mission. She's all kitted up and ready to go, except -

Except - 

Except that she's sprawled on the floor of the helicarrier's crib, back twisted so badly she'll never walk again. There's blood on her hands, a gash on her cheek, bone poking through a tear in her right trouser leg. One hand is reaching out toward someone, fingers curled in agony.

Her breath catches in her throat but she makes herself look at the next image, down in the corner of the page. It's more of the same, only now it's her neck at an angle so sharp it's all but severed, her blood-thickened hair plastered against her slack, lifeless face. They get worse and worse - the dark stain spreading behind her skull as she slumps limply against a wall, the one where she's hunched in a fetal curl, blood dripping between her fingers, the one where she's in a nightgown slumped at the foot of his bed like a ruined toy - 

Her hand flies to cover her mouth as she flips to the next page, and the next. They're more of the same: Sharon crumpled, broken, bleeding, dead. She's shaking slightly as she puts the sketchbook down – what the hell is going on? - and it's only when she reminds herself of the pinup drawings that she can breathe normally again.

There's a shift and a creak from the sofa as someone joins her. Long fingers brush over the sketch where she lies slammed against the wall of the crib, neck snapped and skull shattered.

“I can't stop the dreams,” Steve whispers, voice all but unrecognizable. “Ever since I tore the crib apart. All I can think is what if you'd been there. With me.”

She turns to meet his eyes. He's slept enough that they aren't bloodshot anymore, but they're so, so sad. 

He sucks in a breath. “I wanted to go with you, you know. To BOQ. I – I felt so cold after things went south. Didn't want to be alone. Then Rumlow said STRIKE was going in the crib and I thought I needed to be with the men and it was even colder.“

She reaches for his hands, clasps hard. The crib had been freezing, freezing cold, and one of the vents was almost directly over the row of bunks Steve had yanked off the wall. “The thermostat malfunctioned. It wasn't supposed to be that chilly.”

He clasps back, almost desperate. “I – I kept seeing Santerre fall, and halfway down she'd turn into Bucky - “

“She's fine, they sent her home on Wednesday,“ Sharon manages. He's looking right past her, straight into that clusterfuck of an op, or maybe another one that went south before Sharon's father had needed to shave. “Steve - “

He plows on, desperate. “And then thought I heard Schmidt taunting me. Telling me I was frozen, I'd never be thawed. I thought STRIKE was Hydra – it was so real, I – I - “

“It was a dream. I know it was.” Tears well up in his eyes, and if someone had told she'd live to see Captain America cry, she would have called them a liar. “I just – every time I've tried to sleep since then, it's not Santerre, or even Bucky. It's you, always you, and you're dying or dead. Because – I couldn't – I threw you - “

His knuckles show white through his skin, even though he's somehow, some way holding back enough that he hasn't crushed her hands. “I'd never hurt you, Sharon. Never. You're – you were the first person who smiled at me when I woke up. Treated me like a person. Why am I seeing this, I'd never lay a finger on you - “

“And you didn't.” She extracts her right hand, reaches up to cradle his cheek. His skin is so warm and smooth, even with a touch of stubble and the salty slick of tears. “I'm fine, Steve. I'm _fine_.”

“I lashed out at you, I know I did.” He doesn't meet her eyes, even as he turns to press his face into her palm. She wipes the tears away as well as she can. “I remember that much. I could have broken your arm or worse.”

“No, you couldn't have.” Sharon leans close enough that he _has_ to look at her. It's all come together in her mind, the nightmares and the silent treatment and all the times he sent her home even though he was so hard he could barely walk and even the anniversary, and why didn't she realize it earlier? “Steve. Listen to me. Please. 

“You lashed out, yes. That's absolutely true. But it wasn't a kill strike.”

“But - “

“ _Listen_!” she cries, and it's enough that he freezes. She has to reach him, _has_ to, or it's all over. “You used an aikido move to brush me out of the way, not a direct attack. That's why I was able to roll with it. If you'd actually been out to hurt me I couldn't have done that.”

“I - “ His brows knot as her words register. He swallows. “You're certain?”

“Yes. Yes, I am.“ She matches her breathing to his. “I'm not afraid of you, Steve. Not now, not ever.”

He releases her hands, picks up one of the crumpled sketches. It's one of the boudoir pictures, with Sharon in a bustier cut so low she's all but spilling out of the cups, one hand on her hip, one beckoning to the viewer. “You should be. If I ever lose control I could put you through the wall before you could wake up.”

She thinks of the destroyed bunks, the drawings of his darkest dreams. He's right, he could kill her without even knowing it, she's a fool to think otherwise.

_Carpe diem, darling._

“I know that, Steve. I really do.” She traces the arch of one brow, the jut of a cheekbone, the soft swell of his lower lip. “But I know you, too. And I know that even when you thought I was the enemy, you didn't hurt me, didn't even try. You were trying to push me away, not kill me.”

He sucks in a breath, deep and cleansing, and leans close enough that they're breathing the same air. “Yeah?”

She smiles, and oh how good it is to see the light come back into his eyes as he tentatively smiles back. “Yeah.”

He holds back one moment longer, an astonished wonder washing over his face as he finally, _finally_ realizes that she's not going anywhere. He gently touches her face, careful and slow and reverent, and then he's kissing her, hungry and aching and so, so tender. She kisses back, arms going about him and pulling him to her, shivering as he finally, _finally_ touches her. He makes a little sound, cradles her head in one strong hand, whispers her name as he kisses her cheek, her chin, her throat. She says his name, he murmurs hers, and soon there's no time or space for words, or fear, or anything but what they've both wanted for so very, very long.

Later – much later, where did the time go? - they text Natasha to make sure she knows about the tickets so they won't go to waste. Then it's time to cobble together a meal from what's in his fridge and move back to his wide, comfortable bed. This time they take it slow and easy, giving and receiving, exploring and tasting and touching, and when they're done she knows all about his freckles (scattered) and his cries (soft and surprisingly high-pitched) and how he looks when she takes him in hand (wide-eyed and wondering and so, so happy). They drift off clinging to each other, safe and warm and snuggled close, and if either of them dreams, it's of love and joy and all good things, not blood and pain and war.

He whimpers once, when the blanket slips off his shoulders, but before he can so much as tense she's pulled it up to cover him completely. He sighs, then goes back to sleep, long body relaxed, breathing easy and light. Sharon settles against him, solid and strong and curled protectively about her, and joins him.

Carpe diem indeed.


	5. Draw Me Like An American Girl

_Scratch._

_Scratch._

_Scratch scratch scratch...._

Sharon makes a contented sound and stretches her left arm toward the side of the bed. His pillow is dented and warm, and she hunkers over to wrap her arms about it. If he wants it back they can fight over it, and - 

The scratching sound pauses. Then it's replaced by a faint rubbing noise, then the scrape of a hand on paper.

Sharon opens one eye. “Steve?”

He's perched on the radiator, sketchbook on his knee, one foot propped on the side of the bed. He's wearing a comfortably worn set of Stark Industry sweats, clean socks, and a fond, focused expression. He clearly hasn't brushed his hair, which makes her surprisingly happy. 

“Shh. Go back to sleep.” He sets the sketchbook aside long enough to lean forward for a gentle kiss on her brow. It's still gray outside, just past dawn, and if she didn't know that he can see in the dark almost as well as a cat she'd wonder how there was enough light for him to draw. “Just getting in some practice.”

“Drawing me like a French girl?” She touches the shadow on his collarbone that had been a nicely purple love bite when they'd fallen asleep. That serum is a wonder, and not just because having a boyfriend who can hold his breath for five minutes is surprisingly useful. “Thought you didn't like that movie.”

“You're not French,” he murmurs, laughing softly as he eases her back into rumpled sheets that still smell of the night before. “Get some rest. I'll take care of breakfast.”

“Captain's orders?” she says, giving his fingertips a quick kiss. 

“Yep,” he says, and she decides that's a splendid idea.

She wakes up for good when it's full light outside, the sky as clear as it gets in New York, the sun bright and golden. There's noise from the tiny kitchen, the blessed scent of fresh coffee, and Norah Jones singing gently about love. Sharon yawns, swipes her hair out of her eyes, and rolls out of bed. Her go-bag is by the bedroom door, right where she can see it without fumbling for yesterday's clothes or having to borrow Steve's spare toothbrush,and she grabs it as she heads for a bathroom small enough that she knows a joint shower is simply not happening unless (until, eventually, inevitably) they spend the night at his apartment in Avengers Tower.

Five minutes later she pads out of the bathroom, hair combed, breath fresh, and dressed in her favorite jeans and a long sleeved t-shirt so old and faded the SHIELD logo is all but invisible. She doesn't bother with a bra – it's Sunday morning and she's not in the mood, plus it'll be easier if (when) he undresses her the next time – or socks since there's a carpet, plus athletic socks are not precisely the sexiest thing in the world.

Steve is at the little dining table reading about last night's Rangers game as she walks into the main living space, bagels on a plate, cream cheese in a little plastic tub in front of him. Sharon takes a sniff and yes, that is actual, genuine, fresh-from-the-deli lox on a separate plate, and if she didn't already love him that alone would be enough to seal the deal. He takes a sip from a mug that says #1 AVENGER before standing and turning, smile so sweet and loving she can't help smile back.

“Hi,” he says, and she grins so hard her cheeks hurt before going into his arms.

“Hi yourself,” she says, drawing him down for a kiss. “Sleep well?”

“Best I've had in months.” He brushes a stray lock of hair out of her eyes. “It was nice to be warm.”

He tastes of coffee and smells of fresh air and the slightest touch of clean sweat. “Up early?”

“Took a run out to Borough Park,” he says, chuckling softly when her eyebrows go up. Borough Park is a couple miles away, which is a bit of hike for bagels even for someone who can and does run marathons for a warmup. “There's a little place that's sort of adopted me after I tried their lox and said it was the best I'd had since I woke up. They usually save a few bagels for me on Sunday mornings so I figured - “

“They look great.” Sharon runs her fingers through his windblown hair. It's grown out some after a nervous Army barber nearly scalped him, and she takes a moment to play with the fine, soft strands. “I can see why you like them.”

“Only the best for my girl,” he murmurs, flushing slightly. “Woman. Agent. Girlfriend – damn it, I still don't know what to say and - “

“Don't worry. You're good.” Sharon laughs and kisses him – he's adorable when he blushes – until he smiles again. “So are we.”

“Good.” He rests his cheek on her hair, breathing deep as if he's a cat scenting its mate. “Nat loved the concert, by the way. Said Diana Krall was great.”

Sharon hums, nestles close. His muscles are loose, his heartbeat steady and strong, and oh how good it is to see him like this after he was so close to snapping yesterday. “That's nice. Who'd she take, Clint?”

“Nah, Rodriguez. Something about needing to talk, I guess they're gonna call you about lunch this week.” He shifts in place, kisses her hair. “Oh, before I forget, your niece called, too.”

Sharon stiffens. Her phone had been in the pocket of her jeans, which had ended up somewhere near the sofa (along with her sweater, bra, socks, and what was left of her weekend panties, and what a turn on _that_ had been, having him tear them off because he wanted her so badly). Now they're all folded neatly on the coffee table, even the poor shredded underwear, and she can't help blushing even though he's seen her without a stitch. “Shannon? She called me?”

“Not you, me.” Steve takes a step backwards, one eyebrow raised in that little smirk that surprises people who aren't aware he has a sense of humor. “Facebook, you know.”

“Facebook? Wait - “ Sharon gapes, and Steve hands her a cup of coffee with a murmur about Sharon clearly needing the pick-me-up. She glares but it smells so good she takes a decent hit. “You gave Shannon your phone number?”

“Didn't have much choice after I found six messages on my Facebook feed this morning asking if you were all right.” He scoops up his own mug and drinks. “The last one threatened to track Tony down and call him at the Tower if I didn't respond. I don't think that would have ended well for anyone.”

Sharon sits down at the breakfast table, stunned. Shannon's a bright, determined girl, but even she wouldn't be able to get past JARVIS, let alone Pepper Potts. Probably. “That kid. She worries too much - “

“She's not the only one.” He sits down next to her, takes her free hand in his own long, surprisingly fine-boned ones.

_”He always had artist's hands,” Aunt Peggy said, smiling softly as she watched Steve gesture at a point Pepper had raised. “Too long for his body, at least until Rebirth.”_

_“Did anything else stay the same size?” Sharon asked. She knew the stories, had grown up seeing that picture of scrawny, desperate, stubborn pre-serum Steve Rogers on her aunt's desk, but it was still hard to reconcile the picture with the tall, straight-backed reality._

_Aunt Peggy raised an eyebrow. “His nose, oddly enough,” she said, smiling slightly, and if Sharon hadn't known her aunt had a ribald streak she would have choked on her lemonade. “It was always – distinctive. Proud. He was a bit self-conscious about it being broken at one point, but I told him it only added character - “_

“Why didn't you tell me about what happened with your family yesterday?” he says, voice soft and deep. “Shannon was so mad she barely made sense at first. Your sister sounds like a real piece of work.”

Shannon sets her mug down and lays her hand over his. The knuckles are callused from all the boxing and martial arts, the fingertips blunt, but they're still an artist's hands deep down. “You weren't in any shape to talk at first, honey. Then – well, I – I didn't want to think about it. It - “

“Sharon.” He extracts one hand so he can cradle her cheek. “You don't deserve that kind of treatment.”

“Tell them that,” she grinds out. “My sister's hated me since I was born and my brother never lifted a finger to stop her. Why do you think I moved to the city as soon as I could? The way they talk about my mother when her back is turned - “

“Some people are born to make trouble no matter what.” Steve leans toward her, and before she can so much as take a breath he's scooped her up and over so she's sitting in his lap. “Next time, you take me. Your sister has opinions about me, she can tell me to my face. Same thing goes for whatever she has to say about you.”

“I can take care of myself, Steve. It's – it's just how she is.” Sharon bites her lip, manages a weak smile when he shakes his head, brows knotted. “Families can be a pain, you know?”

He makes a sound that's half amusement, half annoyance. “Why do you think I got an injunction against my cousins over that book of theirs? Most of it's stuff _they_ did, not me.” His expression softens as she chuckles – that book was so bad Rumlow used it for target practice even though he's been avoiding Steve ever since he lost that stupid bet. 

“Seriously, though? Just because you're used to it doesn't mean you should put up with it.”

“Steve - “

“Weren't you the one who told me I wasn't alone?” he says, and she stops dead. A little of his Captain America voice creeps into his tone. “Same thing goes for you. I was a mess yesterday, not denying it, but I could have pulled myself together long enough to deal with your sister. 

“Next time you have to deal with them, I'll come with you. Let them see me – see _us_ \- for themselves.”

Something in her that had ached since she'd heard those cruel, cruel words - _slut, dirty, what is wrong with you?_ \- seen her own father put Steve's needs above hers, eases at last. What has she done to deserve this man's friendship, let alone his heart? 

“All right, on one condition,” she says when she's sure she won't break down. “Next time, _you_ call _me_ when you're having a rough patch. Deal?”

He firms his jaw, then nods. “Deal.”

Neither speaks for a long, long moment. The silence ends when Sharon's stomach growls, and then it's laughter and coffee and real, genuine deli bagels, chewy and fresh, slathered with store-made cream cheese and lox so perfect she nearly swoons at the first bite. He hands her the sports section of the _Bugle_ while he reads the political coverage, and by the time she's ranted about the Orioles' rookie pitcher and he's rolled his eyes at the Rangers getting beat by Winnipeg, it's closing in on noon. Sharon's about to ask if he wants to watch a movie (he still hasn't seen _Some Like It Hot_ , which is an absolute crime, or _Mystic Pizza_ , which is close) when he stands, stretches, and picks up the breakfast dishes without even being asked. 

“Steve? I was going to do that, you made the coffee it's the least I could - “

“My dishes, my rules,” he says, and ducks into the tiny second bedroom that's barely big enough for his drawing board before she can protest. “There's a great little diner about a block from here where I figured we could have lunch in a bit.“

Which means “I'm hungry again and am trying not to seem greedy” in Stevespeak even though Sharon is still digesting breakfast. Still, diner food....

“Maybe in an hour? How are the burgers?”

“Really good, their cheeseburgers are terrific,” he says, and comes out of the little studio, his sketchbook under one arm. “I wanted to show you something first, though. Parts of it are pretty rough, but I hope you like it.”

Sharon frowns as he holds it out to her, open to a page about halfway through. It's not until she's actually touching it that she recognizes it for the one he was using when she surfaced for the first time.

She carefully touches the creamy, lightly textured paper, stares at the image. It's Sharon herself, of course, still sleeping but clearly on the verge of waking. She's on her side, hair in her eyes, one hand under her pillow, one splayed on the mattress as if reaching for someone. The covers are bunched around her waist, low enough that her breasts and shoulders are visible. There's strength in the lean muscle of her arm, the flex of her fingers, but her face is soft and all but glowing, a tiny, satisfied smile playing about her lips as she dreams.

She's beautiful. 

Sharon knows better – she's painfully aware of every scar, every blemish, every flaw in her body and face and flesh – but Steve clearly disagrees. To him she's beautiful despite her imperfections, and her breath catches as she looks at herself through his eyes, the love and joy driving every stroke, every line, every shadow. She doesn't look like this, she _knows_ she doesn't, but to him, she absolutely does. 

**This is how I draw an American girl,** he's written across the bottom, and her breath catches at the simple words. How could she ever have doubted him? 

“Steve?”

“You looked so peaceful. So – happy.” His eyes are so soft and so very blue today. “I probably should have asked but you needed your sleep. I hope you don't mind.”

“Mind? Steve, this is - “ 

_You drew me._

_You gave yourself to me, and then you drew me._

_My God, I love you._

“ - I don't have the words. It's - “ She swallows, blindly reaches for a paper napkin until he shoves a wad of Kleenex into her hand. “No one's ever done anything like this for me. _Of_ me. It's – it's incredible, I don't even know what to say except - “

“You don't have to say anything.” He draws her close, and it's her turn to let the tears come. “I already know.”

Eventually she pulls herself together. There's a new Norah Jones song playing, this one bright and cheerful, and she can't help but smile up at him. “So. About these cheeseburgers - “

He sets the sketchbook aside. “That's my favorite, but there's plenty of others. You'll see.” 

“Excellent,” she says, stands, and reaches down to pull him to his feet. “I'm not quite hungry enough for lunch yet, but I can think of a good way to work up an appetite.”

“Really.” He puts his hands on her hips, slides them low enough to splay his palms across her rear and squeeze just enough to make her shiver. “Anything I can do to help?”

She kisses him – will she ever get tired of how soft his mouth is? - then takes a step backwards, back toward the bedroom. “Oh, I think so. It's pretty strenuous, though. Think you're up for it?”

“Always,” he says, and before she can react he's swept her up into his arms and spun her around. “For you, always.”

If there's one thing Sharon's learned over the years, it's never to believe what someone promises. “Always” never is, no matter how much it's meant at the time, and part of her long since gave up on words being anything more But that was before Steve, and somehow she knows that to him, “always” is exactly that. 

“I'm holding you to that,” she says, and oh _God_ , being carried as lightly as if she weighs nothing is an even bigger turn-on than having her panties yanked off.

“Was hoping you would,” he says, and carries her back to bed for another round before lunch.


End file.
